


In the King’s Garden

by marguerite_26



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The land loved her young prince and saw his pain, saw how his heart was caged, and how he hardened it in the name of duty. And she sent him a gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the King’s Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disco-mouse (swamp_mouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swamp_mouse/gifts).



> This was for [](http://merlin-ficart.livejournal.com/profile)[**merlin_ficart**](http://merlin-ficart.livejournal.com/) challenge #5 - to write for [](http://waltzing-mice.livejournal.com/profile)[**waltzing_mice**](http://waltzing-mice.livejournal.com/)’s [The Secret Garden](http://waltzing-mice.livejournal.com/73751.html) [NWS].

The great land of Camelot was once rife with carnage. Wars made the land weep and the crops wither. The unrest was felt by all -- even the smallest child’s skin itched, restless in this unsettled world.

Then a fair prince was born and he shone brilliant like the sun gleaming off the still waters of Avalon. He was raised to be proud and strong, and to love this broken land like the mother he would never know. The land loved him back; she watched him grow and hope swelled in her heart for a day when he would be king and save them all.

During the idleness of youth, the golden prince grew lonely. He found solace in the castle where no one could find him. You see, the castle had a secret garden, one that even the king had forgotten existed. It was hidden from sight by high, thick cedars. In the summer, vines would twist up the castle walls and fill the corners of this tiny garden with the pink blossoms of the clematis flower.

The garden might have remained secret, but fate intervened. When the queen still lived, she’d enjoyed the quiet space of the garden for many long afternoons at the recommendation of the court physician, who believed time away from court rejuvenated one’s constitution. Upon her death, the old physician had become keeper of the garden, and on the prince’s tenth birthday, he’d gifted the boy with a key wrapped in a slip of parchment on which was a map and a drawing of a door.

The prince told no one of the gift.

Any spare moment he had, he would find his way through the labyrinth of long forgotten stairwells, searching until one day he reached an ancient door with animal carvings in each corner. He took the key from around his neck and with all the strength in his narrow shoulders, he shoved the door open wide enough to slip through and found a sanctuary.

In the years that followed, the prince spent hours with grass tickling his nape and the tips of his ears. His fingers would tangle in the vines as he watched the clouds pass without a single servant fussing over him or tutor rapping his knuckles for being lazy in his arithmetic. Or seeing the hard stare of his father as he ordered his soldiers on yet another campaign.

The king loved his son, but he was a bitter, troubled man who’d done much to crush the compassion that burned in his son’s soul. The prince’s heart ached with each report of Camelot’s brave men felled on the battlefield. With each passing winter the numbers grew, and the prince grew numb. After returning from his first battle, where the blood and the dirt stained his hands and clothes so thoroughly he thought he would never be rid of it, he snuck past the cedars to his secret place, wanting for all the world to be alone.

Only he wasn’t alone. The land loved her young prince and saw his pain, saw how his heart was caged, and how he hardened it in the name of duty. And she sent him a gift.

That night, tangled in the vines of his secret garden, the prince found a young warlock. His eyes were stubborn and clever and, as the prince approached, he dug his heels into the soft earth. The moonlight shone silver on the boy’s naked, dirty body and on the vines wrapped around the boy’s arms, trapping him.

He approached the boy as he would a frightened bird with a broken wing, hand open, soft voice and a slow hand, but the trapped boy’s eyes flashed golden in warning. The weariness of weeks on the battlefield had worn him thin, and the prince shrugged and ignored the odd visitor, though he kept his sword unsheathed. He lay down on his back to look up at the stars. Neither spoke. The wind was soft and warm, pleasing.

In the morning, the boy remained and the prince went back to his castle. When he returned, the warlock was there, unharmed and not in need of anything, but trapped still as though he appeared for no other reason than to keep the prince company.

“Do you want me to untie you today?” the prince asked one hot afternoon mid-summer.

The boy looked up at the vines he’d commanded to grow high over his head to give shelter from the rain and the sun and said, “Not today.” The prince knew if the boy were free, the king would hunt him down and burn him so the prince only nodded, kept him trapped. Safe.

The prince sometimes visited the garden three times a day, and then not again for a month. But always the young boy was there, a constant, talking out of turn and making the prince rage, making him laugh. The prince would enter the garden and would say, “Hello, little warlock.” The boy would reply in the same fashion, “Hello, _little_ prince.” And a sly smile would creep on his lips as the prince bristled.

The boy knew the strange man was a prince, but saw glory in the goodness of his heart and not in the gold of his crown. There were nights when the prince visited his garden and ranted about laws and codes, pacing between the cedars like a caged animal, and the boy would be silent because the prince needed him to be. There were afternoons where the prince faded in and out of sleep as the boy told tales of dragons and beasts, flowers that could bring death and a cup that could give life. He would watch the prince’s bright eyes as he listened to each lesson of love and betrayal, of trust and loyalty, and he would see the prince for the king he would be someday.

The prince grew to be a man and talks with the warlock became as valued to the prince as training with his knights, as educational as any tome, and as pleasurable as the company of any visiting noble.

He looked at the frost-tipped needles of the cedars and asked, “Would you like me to cut you free, little warlock?”

The boy’s eyes danced with mirth and he sent a wave of heat over the garden until the trees were wet and glistening as though they’d simply shaken off the cold of solstice. “Not tonight, _little_ prince.”

The land smiled upon their friendship and knew she had chosen her gift wisely.

One night the prince arrived to visit his little warlock, the thrill of battle still pulsing high in his veins. His shadow blocked the late afternoon sun. The boy saw there was fire in the prince’s eyes and he blushed. For the first time they looked at each other and felt the ache of longing and knew what was to come. What was meant to be.

That day, the prince fell to his knees at the boy’s feet. As their lips met, they were equals.

After that, the secret garden saw many hours where the prince pleased the trapped boy and the trapped boy pleased the prince. The land flourished in the hopes and dreams whispered in the moonlight in the king’s secret garden.

When the day came that shouts of “Long live the king” echoed through the dirty streets and through the mountains, the citadel itself trembled with nervous joy that peace might reign.

Three days after he’d buried his father, the new king crept through the castle, down the stairwells long forgotten by everyone but him to the door with the animal carvings. He used the key that had never left the strip of leather around his neck.

“Hello, little warlock.”

“Hello, my king,” the boy said, his voice thick with knowledge of the future laid out before them both. “It is time.”

With a flash of steel, the king freed his warlock. He removed his own cloak and wrapped the naked boy in the colours of Camelot and led him to the castle that he might sit at the right hand of the throne.

The land rejoiced, for she was now held in gentle hands and would become great.

**Author's Note:**

> [Original post on Livejournal](http://marguerite-26.livejournal.com/650010.html#comments)


End file.
